


Not a chance

by Blue_Sparkle



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sparkle/pseuds/Blue_Sparkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Marwood returns from Manchester, everything seemed to turn out so well...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a chance

_The road was a nameless dirty stripe in between two apartment blocks. There wasn’t anyone on the sidewalks now, only cars rushed past, fast, with irregular distances in between each other; stinking vehicles that poisoned the air with their black fumes and their noise. The drivers didn’t even look around, no glance to spare for the lonely figure that could easily be a tramp, none of them having any idea about how sacred the place was to him._

***

The first few weeks had been terrible. Withnail had drunk himself senseless, he had tried the little pills that Danny kept bringing from hell knows where. Large chunks of time were simply gone, not that he missed them very much. Not that there was anything worth remembering anyway.

Several times his hands had reached for the telephone, shaking – maybe with fear, maybe because he was pissed or high. He had never dared to. After all, it was obvious that Marwood didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

Somehow Withnail had managed to scrape up enough money to avoid an eviction, for now. He got hold of a local Manchester gazette, which was ridiculously hard to get in London, just to find the review on Marwood’s play. 

The critics loved it, of course, praising the talent of the newcomer who excelled at the main role; only an imbecile would have failed to recognise how good he was. There was a grainy little photo of the stage next to the article. It was black and white, and at first Withnail didn’t even notice that the person on it was Marwood.

He had cut it out, carefully, because that was really the only photo of his lost love, the only believable truth that he hadn’t been the product of some kind of overdose. So what if the gazette had cost Withnail the few pennies that he could have used for four days worth of food?

***

In the end it was Marwood who saved him, unknowingly. 

It had been at least three weeks, maybe more as it was impossible for Withnail to tell how much time had passed and what day of the week it was - Christ, even the time of day was a stretch! The sky could have been on fire and Withnail wouldn’t have noticed.

He was on the floor, gripping his head hard, enough to hurt and maybe leave bruises. He had drunk things that were stuck in the farthest corners of the cupboards and vaguely smelled of alcohol. Maybe they’d kill him? That’d be a relive. He was too afraid to do it properly himself, he had always been a coward, why lie? 

The phone was shrill and hurt his already aching brain. He wanted to leave it, the only ones who ever bothered to dial this number were either those he wished to hell or those he couldn’t bear to hear. But the ringing would be over sooner, if he just managed to crawl up and pick up the receiver.

“H-hello?” he croaked, surprised by how weak and ill his voice sounded. 

“Withnail?”

He nearly dropped the receiver again. It was him, him why would he call, why would he bother? 

“Withnail, are you there? Have I woken you up, I’m sorry, I know it’s early…”

“No, I’m fine, fine! Why…” he swallowed, struggling for words. “Why did you call?” he finished lamely unable to come up with a snarky remark. There was a small noise, barely audible over the static, but it sounded like an attempt to stifle a nervous laugh.

“I- I just wanted to talk. I’ve missed you Withnail.”

And at those simple words Withnail suddenly felt something like hope.

***

_It was raining, of course. It wasn’t that light rain, where the drops were no bigger than a fine dust, merely making hair and clothes damp, it wasn’t a heavy curtain of water, that soaked everything completely within seconds of stepping out into it. No, it was that terrible trickle that had you shiver from the cold and left enormous puddles everywhere without really getting you completely wet._

_Now and then a car would drive through those that gathered in the broken pavements cracks, sending waves of water on his shoes. The soles were halfway detached, but now there was no reason to try and look presentable anymore after all…_

***

They had talked on the phone nearly every day; it was always Marwood calling as Withnail still didn’t dare to cross any lines. But Marwood pushed, he talked about everything that was going on in Manchester, mostly trivial things but what else was the to discuss, really?

He sounded more confident, sure of himself and happier than he had been in London. As if being out of Withnail’s direct influence was enough to make him a better person. However Withnail’s own fake confidence seemed to decrease proportionally to Marwood’s anxiousness.

But he also felt so much better. Some days Withnail managed to stay sober, he stopped smoking the stuff Danny occasionally brought by, he tried to eat regularly and fixed the holes in his clothes while waiting impatiently for the phone’s ring.

This had been going on for a few weeks when Marwood asked to come to London for a visit.

“The season is nearly over so I won’t be doing any plays for a while. And I haven’t been in London for months, I could stay over in my old room, if that’s all right with you?”

There was only the tiniest trace of doubt in his voice as he said it, waiting for Withnail’s reaction. His mouth felt dry as Withnail tried to respond to that. Marwood coming here? He’d see him again. He’d see his face for real again, not just the grainy spot on an old newspaper’s photo.

“Of course, it’s still your room after all, you’re still paying the rent”, he said, hoping that his voice sounded nonchalant and wouldn’t betray his excitement. Marwood laughed on the other end of the line, the sound a soft static. 

And that’s how it starts.

***

 

_The spot he’s looking for doesn’t look special, the road is straight and there is absolutely no difficulty in staying off the sidewalk. There was enough room for at least three people walking comfortably side by side here, but only few passed here. There is absolutely no reason why one would expect anything to happen here._

***

 

Withnail had meant to apologize to Marwood when he arrived. He did understand that it was partly how he acted towards him that made him go away and he didn’t want it to happen again. He had tidied the flat (he made an effort). He had bought a good bottle of wine and he hadn’t opened it yet. 

He had planed to try and be polite towards Marwood. 

He had absolutely not planed to tell or show him just how much he had missed him and how he felt about him. 

And yet…

Marwood arrived a little earlier than he had estimated; perhaps the train connections were on time for once. Withnail heard the clunking of a suitcase being dragged up the stairs first.

He jumped up from the couch and walked towards the hallway to greet him. Marwood was already there when he reached it, taking of his hat and putting down his luggage. He looked up from where he was trying to ease the heavy suitcase down, their eyes locked and for a moment Withnail was sure that this was the end, that Marwood would laugh at him and run. 

The moment passed, chased away by the thump of the suitcase as Marwood abandoned his attempt to place it on the ground carefully. He smiled and took two wide steps towards his old friend, taking the hands that reached out for him on their own accord. 

They closed the distance, fingers wrapping around fingers, chests pressed together as they kissed. It wasn’t chaste and innocent like all the grand first kisses of epic romances, but it was sweet and desperate, just perfect and what they both needed, had wanted for so long.

***

 

_Things happen, sometimes for no reason, for no greater purpose. Things that are bad and tear holes in the world, things that don’t make any sense.  
They had called him to tell him of it, in a sober voice, so practiced to tell about those senseless things that their voices were devoid of any emotion, as empty as his chest had felt as they told him._

_They wouldn’t have called him specifically, he just happened to be the second tenant of the flat they called. Nobody cared who he was; he was no one to the man who was laying in their cold vaults._

***

They kissed for the rest of the day. Not without pauses of course, Withnail attempted to carry the suitcase back into Marwood’s room, while he insisted to do it himself. It ended in cursing and kicking of the inanimate object, a bruised foot and the decision to let it be for now. 

They crashed on the couch, holding each other’s hands and laughing, talking about London and the train ride from the North (that neither really cared about), drinking wine and avoiding saying a thing about what they were really doing here. But they kissed over and over again, nothing too exciting; Withnail wouldn’t dare and Marwood too nervous to initiate more.

But it was good in its unexciting way.

 

***

 

_The chairs in the hospital were hard and uncomfortable to sit in, in addition to being in a place were nobody wanted to be anyway. Withnail had stayed there, feeling numb inside and out. The staff had walked pass him, without paying him any mind. He was hardly better than a bum, not the kind of person you’d expect there._

_He had walked to the hospital as soon as the receiver had dropped. It was a cold corridor, with cold white lamps that weren’t the least bit comforting. He’d expected that before, probably, before he had any reason to think about how a morgue should look like._

_Somewhere down the corridor a woman was crying. A nurse held her hand, patting her shoulder with all the warmth and pity that the place was lacking. Withnail watched them wordlessly, watched, as she was lead into a room nearly immediately after her arrival. A young wife maybe, or a girl widowed before the marriage even turned bitter._

_He wondered whether they’d acknowledge him if he were wearing a too short skirt, if he cried and were a woman, or if he was there for his wife. It didn’t really matter anymore._

 

***

 

Withnail had never been as completely content as he was in those weeks after Marwood’s arrival. Sure, there must have been days that were more exciting, days when he was happier or feeling more alive. But he never was just happy for such a long period of time. 

He was allowed to kiss and touch a person he loved whenever he pleased, Marwood wouldn’t leave anymore, he’d never be alone again. 

They spend their nights in Withnail’s room now, both still being too lazy to make Marwood’s inhabitable again. It was glorious, being able to touch his loved one, where he wasn’t even allowed to look before. 

Holding each other in their sleep, hands clutching the other’s body as they moved against each other, whispered declarations of love; Withnail couldn’t decide which he’d miss the most, but he would never need to chose.

They woke up together every morning just being lazy with nowhere to go and nobody to disturb them. Every day Withnail would wake up to see a handsome face and a sweet smile, and yes. Life was all right.

 

***

_After what felt like half an eternity someone came in to call him in. The cold made Withnail tremble slightly, as he followed the man to the morgue. He listened as the doctor rambled on about not having any family contacts, and how the only information in the wallet had been an address, and really, it shouldn’t have taken so long._

_Withnail ignored it, not wanting to talk for once. The room he was lead in was plain, with a couple of empty metal tables, and the actual medical equipment behind a corner. Only one table was occupied, a white blanket hiding everything from sight._

_“Here he is”, said the doctor as he carefully untangled the sheet. Withnail wanted to look away, or brace himself, but the sheet was already pulled back enough to reveal a face. He could tear his eyes away after that._

_The doctor turned away from the face, then. Half of it was pretty, with a nice bone structure and without any wrinkles of age, the other half, the one that Withnail was looking at, had been maimed by an ugly scratch._

_“Lets see…. Peter M. It is him, yes? Was he your friend? I am very sorry-“_

_The scratch was deep, cleaned now, but the lack of blood only made the wound look more alien, it didn’t belong on a nice face like that; it didn’t belong on anybody’s face at all!_

_The day before Withnail would have taken pride in being able to reach the nearest bin before he heaved up his stomach’s contends._

 

***

 

The sunrays illuminated the dust settling on their old furniture, it looked pretty even though it meant that they should clean the flat soon. Marwood had taken some money and the battered umbrella, as it had rained in the morning and he didn’t want to take any chances. 

He wanted to go on a walk, he explained, maybe buy some food on his way back, and wine because they had drank the last bottle the night before. He had smiled as he said goodbye, pausing at the door and then coming back for a quick parting kiss. 

It was a nice day, like any other nice day before that. So when the phone rang a few hours later, Withnail was still in a good mood, surprised as nobody called anymore, but why should the ancient device mean anything bad.

***

_Hit and drive they said. Someone must have been driving way over the speed limit, maybe drunk. The car had hit the only pedestrian who was there at the time, as they drove onto the pavement. Another driver had seen them speeding away and called for help._

_The injuries were severe; there was nothing to be done. He lost consciousness before they even reached the hospital. He died on their way. He probably didn’t feel much; he didn’t suffer in the end._

_They had called the family then, letting them decide what should to be done next. Nobody cared for the man who refused to leave until the early morning. He was probably just a close friend after all._

 

***

 

No plaque marks the spot, no flowers or crosses have been placed here, as in so many other places where accidents happened. It’s not important, the victim has a nice little grave far away from this place.

Withnail can’t bring himself to go there. The thought of the stone with his dear one’s name carved into it makes his stomach squirm, and he feels that he can’t handle it sober. And he won’t go there drunk; Marwood wouldn’t have approved of that after all.

Instead he stands by the road, where not even a scratch reminds of the accident, and pulls out a bottle of cheap scotch. He opens it with shaking fingers, balancing the old umbrella between his cheek and shoulder.

The rain pours down around him as Withnail raises the bottle in a toast to the road.

“I miss you.” He says simply, lips trembling into a weak smile at the sense of déjà vu. “Chin Chin.”

He takes a large gulp, the cheap booze burning his throat. He coughs and glanced at the road one last time. He had said his final goodbye to his love, he wouldn't need to return here anymore. Turning back the way he came, he walks through the rain, holding the umbrella loosely and taking sips from his bottle now and then.

A car rushes by, spraying cold water at the swaying man, by the time the sound of the motor faded away in the distance he has already reached the end of the road and disappears behind a corner.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the "Throw yourself on the road, darling!" line... my brain just went 'but what if Marwood dies...?' and well...
> 
> Thanks for my awesome beta, Inja :*


End file.
